


The Locks I knew

by Sing



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hair, Season3 anticipation, light angst?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 15:15:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4710632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sing/pseuds/Sing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They appraise each other after their separation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Locks I knew

Ichabod feels the breeze on his neck from a window and still thrills from the feel of it. He's never held any ill will towards his long hair, but he is surprised at the amount of relief and freedom he feels to be rid of it. He fidgets in the archives, two coffees growing cold, a bag of donut holes. She had said she would hurry. It's early out, there is shy sunlight peeking through the windows, chasing away the shadows that lurk in the crevices of the archives, dust motes floating in the air, and he has just made a mental note that he must invest some time in cleaning before the door opens.

He blinks. 

She blinks.

The locks I knew, he thinks as he takes one slow step towards her;the locks I knew were long, dark, curling strands softly framing her face, that shielded her from scrutiny if she ever had doubts. They were the curtain she'd draw back on occasion to reveal her slender neck. They got sticky with blood from wounds and caught leaves and twigs when chasing adversaries in the forest. They carried burdens, the past. 

The locks I knew, she thinks as she takes one slow step towards him; the locks I knew were wavy, golden brown tendrils that brushed his shoulders, that looked so charming in it's queue, that he tousled when frustrated and dishevelled in battle, that caught in his mouth on a day with a strong wind. It was one of few things he had brought with him from the man he used to be. It carried with it history. Who he was. 

Slow, careful, mystified steps carry them to one another, crossing the room in wonder at this strange, yet welcome familiar face now looking back at them. 

The locks I knew were never so light and free. 

So neat.

So, new.

There is a moment in which they worry, for the person that is lost now, the person they have turned their back on now, with this transformation. They consider the history and memory that was bound up in roots, snarls, tangles and curls. They worry for the familiar that has been torn away and renders the other in new, fresh light. How new, are you now? they wonder. How changed are you, after this year apart? 

What struggles have you known, that inspired you to 'start over'?

What journey have you taken to shed your old skin?

What haunting thing rustled your mane in your sleep, and in desperation for slumber, you visited upon your head the violence of a shearing?

Or is it merely you were tired, of who you were?

And if you are tired of who you were, then the person you have become now, are they also weary of me?

All these questions they ask and ponder, for these are not the locks they know. 

They meet in the middle, still silent, still staring, and then, at once, both reach for the other, running their hand through the new thing, the new, airy, light, soft thing that defines them now. These bouncy, soft, smooth, hairs. Untouched by harsh winds, blood or venom. That have not known midnight woodsy sweat nor feverish dreams. That until now, have never known the touch of another human hand, the feeling of fingers, gently, slowly, gliding among them, coming to rest at base of neck, still gazing at one another. 

These are not the locks I knew, they think as they move in closer, closer still, eyes fluttering shut until lips press against one another. 

But they are the locks of the one I love.


End file.
